


Release the Hounds

by A_Graph_You_Look_At



Category: Teen Wolf (TV), The Purge (Movies), The Purge: Anarchy (2014)
Genre: Also racism, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Derek drives a suped up Camaro, M/M, Purge AU, Stiles Has Panic Attacks, Stiles Uses A Baseball Bat, The Purge is a great allegory for classism, rated for violence and language, werewolves are a great allegory for racism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-28
Updated: 2016-05-30
Packaged: 2018-06-05 00:17:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6681856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Graph_You_Look_At/pseuds/A_Graph_You_Look_At
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek doesn’t care why Peter killed Laura.  All that matters is that his uncle does not survive this year’s Purge.<br/>-<br/>Because Stiles hates the Purge.  He hates what it does to people.  He hates what it could do to his dad or Scott or Melissa for that matter.  But there is one thing about the Purge that Stiles is thankful for.  He’s thankful that his mom never lived to see it.<br/>-<br/>One wants revenge, the other to simply survive.  Either way, the only certainty on Purge Night?  Not everyone survives.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Commencement

**Author's Note:**

> The Purge AU I've been mulling around since I first saw The Purge: Anarchy. 
> 
> Title from O.C.A.D. song of the same title.

Stiles hates the Purge.  He hates the laughter in the locker room as his peers make plans to “get so fucking smashed” in Jackson’s luxury panic room.  He hates the look that Scott gets whenever he hears even a mention of it.  He hates the annual news coverage where they rehash the same arguments any time there’s a slow news day.  He hates that it seems like all anyone can talk about for all of February and March.  He hates that he can’t get away from it.  But what he hates most of all is that, come Purge night, his father is never home. 

“Lotta people need help come morning, kiddo.  Lotta messes need cleaning up.”  Emergency services may stop for the 12 hours of the Purge, but 7 am comes with a parade of ambulances and a cacophony of sirens.  Stiles knows this.  Doesn’t mean he has to like it.

“Let me come with you this year, Dad.  I can help out in the morning, you know I can.”  Stiles glances at the kitchen clock.  4:27 pm.  Plenty of time before Commencement.  Beacon Hills’ Sheriff looks up from their early dinner - steak and potatoes, because Purge Eve is Splurge Eve, no matter what Stiles says.  

“It’s not the morning I’m worried about, Stiles.  You know that.”

“I just don’t understand why-”

“Why I’m not going to let you stay the night in one of the most popular targets for Purgers?  Stiles, we’ve been over this.  You’re too young.”

“But Parrish-”

The Sheriff cuts him off with a short laugh, the hard kind, born from anxiety and frustration.  “Stiles, Deputy Parrish is a qualified  _ Deputy _ of the County Sheriff’s Department, not to mention a trained bomb technician.”  Stiles glares at his dad, knowing what was coming next.  “Not to mention he’s not-”

“Seventeen, Dad, yes fine, I’ll stay home.  Alone, just like every other year.”  Stiles leans back in his chair and crosses his arms.  He knows he’s acting like a child.  Doesn’t mean he’s going to stop.

The Sheriff holds his son’s stare for a moment before he sits back and just- deflates, shoulders slumped and head hanging to his chest.  He heaves a sigh filled with all the stress and worry that Stiles hates to see his father carry.  Stiles hates that he’s the one to put it there on these nights.  

“You know that’s not fair, Stiles,” the Sheriff says.  His face is the picture of tired paternal disappointment.  “You could be safe with Scott and Melissa and the Delgados.  You could be there every year.”  Aaand here’s the part of this annual spat in which Stiles gets to drown in guilt.  Yay.  He uncrosses his arms only to bury his head in his hands.

“Dad, I-”

“I know son.  I know you want to make sure I’m safe.  But you’ve gotta know that I only want to know the same of you.”

When Stiles looks up, his dad is leaning towards him, hand reaching across the table, waiting for Stiles to come halfway.  He always does.  This year is no different.  Stiles takes his father’s hand and they finish eating in silence.  Stiles hates causing his father stress.  But it doesn’t mean he’ll stop reliving the same argument every year.  Not if it means being able to hold his dad’s hand afterwards.  Not if it means giving up what could be their last few hours as their little family of two.

 

Sometimes Stiles wishes his father wasn’t such a good Sheriff, that he wasn’t such a good man beneath that.  Because Stiles hates the Purge.  He hates what it does to people.  He hates what it could do to his dad or Scott or Melissa for that matter.  But there is one thing about the Purge that Stiles is thankful for.  He’s thankful that his mom never lived to see it.

 

***

Derek hates the Purge.  He hates it because it had tempted him for so many years and every year he’d been pulled back from the edge by the one person in the world he’d cared about.  But now she’s dead.  And Derek is going to Purge properly this year. 

 

The urge to find his family’s killers still rests beneath the surface, but Laura’s death will be avenged.  Derek can see her dead eyes every time he closes his own, feel her freezing skin under his fingertips, smell the lingering scent of her killer stinging in his nose, familiarity making it burn.  

 

Derek doesn’t care why Peter killed Laura.  All that matters is that his uncle does not survive this year’s Purge.

 

***

6:23 pm.  Less than an hour until Commencement and Stiles is checking the arsenal on his bed one last time.  One pump-action shotgun and a case of buckshot, two handguns with 2 extra clips each, 4 throwing knives, and a machete.  The rest of the house is sprinkled with knives from the kitchen, placed for convenient access just in case.  Also a grenade or two.  Better safe than sorry.

 

The Sheriff had left for the station a half hour ago, after helping Stiles place the knives and board up the windows.  They can’t afford a fancy security system on a small county Sheriff’s salary, but they manage.  Stiles is just walking downstairs to check the front door locks when his phone beeps, signaling a text message.  It’s from his dad.  [ _ At the station now.  Almost finished barricading ourselves in.  Check in every hour, on the hour.  Love you. _ ]

Stiles sends back a quick [ _ Love you too, Dad. _ ], locks the three deadbolts on the door, and lowers the crossbar.  Stiles nods at the door.  It held every year.  It would hold again.  Before turning to head back upstairs, Stiles pats the baseball bat leaned against the corner of the entryway, behind the little coat rack.  Stiles knows a simple wooden bat was the most impractical weapon for the Purge.  Doesn’t mean he’ll up his safely blanket.

 

***

Five minutes left.  Derek slides in the Camaro, disliking the added bulk of the kevlar around his chest.  Normally, he wouldn’t bother, but tonight he can’t afford to be slowed down by errant bullets.  Derek has a lot to do in 12 hours.  He revs up the engine, getting a feel for the last minute enhancements.  The Camaro growls contentedly and Derek feels a response building in his chest.   _ Soon _ , he thinks, then peels out onto the street, the screech of the tires lost as the sirens sound.

 

***

_ “This is not a test.  This is your emergency broadcast system announcing the commencement of the Annual Purge sanctioned by the U.S. Government.  Weapons of class Four or lower have been authorized for use during the Purge.  All other weapons are restricted.  Government Officials of ranking Ten have been granted immunity from the Purge and shall not be harmed or Turned.  Commencing at the siren, any and all crime, including murder and unconsented Turning, will be legal for 12 continuous hours.  Police, fire and emergency medical services will be unavailable until tomorrow morning at 7 am, when the Purge concludes.  At such time, all newly Turned werewolves must report to their local law enforcement offices for registration.  Blessed be our new Founding Fathers and America, a nation reborn.  May God be with you all.” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments/questions are always welcome either on here or @ doctorthetwitch on tumblr.


	2. Culture

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles remembers just why he hates the Purge so much, and Derek continues his search. Things get a little more violent for both of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~~ denote shifts in and out of memory/ large time jumps  
> *** still means shift in POV/scene
> 
> Lots more swearing from here on in, tbh.

Stiles mutes the TV, not wanting to hear the news commentators talk far too happily about the live Purge footage streaming in from all over the country.  And of course the Great Werewolf Debate.  That’s the worst.  Whenever a were is on the livestream, it’s just a springboard.

~~~

“But should weres even be allowed to participate in the Purge with a primarily human population?” One concerned anchor asks, looking at the board of specialists gathered to provide insight.

“If they were not allowed to purge the same as everyone else, it would be a violation of their constitutional rights!”  Some young politician in a suit jacket interjects.  “The Purge is held on the night of the full moon specifically so weres can have the chance to unleash their baser instincts without reprimand just as human participants can.”  Several approving nods.

“It’s arguable that werewolves need the Purge more than the rest of us.”  Light laughter around the table at the middle-aged behavioral psychologist’s remark.

“Okay, okay,” the anchor tries to regain control.  “But what about all those Turned on this night?  We’ve all heard the horror stories.”  The mood grows somber until a young blonde in a low cut blouse pipes up.

“Actually, not as many people are Turned each Purge as you might think.  See, only Alphas have the ability to pass on the Bite, as we all know, and of course Alphas are required by law to register with their state government as well as the Federal.”  She must be the werewolf expert.  “What’s more, this is all public record, so most Alphas end up as prime Purge targets themselves.  If an Alpha cannot leave their home due to constant attack , they can’t Turn anyone.  It’s really quite a beautiful system.”  Make that the werewolf  _ hunting _ expert.

The mood lifts at the woman’s concise spiel and bright smile.  She’s good at her job.  The young politician speaks up again, “And even then, those who are Turned on Purge night have a plethora of resources available to them once they register themselves the next morning.  Training programs and seminars, conferences, hotlines, including the most popular, a 6 week stay in any of the numerous Eichenhaus facilities across the country.”

“Eichenhaus, of course, being the leading rehabilitation center for werewolves,” the anchor steps in again, offering what she and everyone else knows, catering to the lowest common denominator, as is her job.  “Sponsored by the U.S. Government and approved by the National Hunters Council,” a nod to the blonde woman, “Purge-Turned werewolves receive a tax break and financial aid if they choose to attend.  But enough talk of politics, there’s a rather impressive gang in LA that’s just sieging City Hall!”

~~~

But that’s just exactly what Stiles wants to avoid.  He gets enough of it at school.  Stiles only wishes it was directed at him

~~~

“So, what are your plans for the Purge, McCall?”  Jackson Whittemore.  Who else would piss off the local teen wolf?  “Gonna go out and slaughter some kindergarteners?  Or are they too fast for you?”  Stiles wants to punch that smirk off his face.  But Scott isn’t reacting.  Stiles follows his lead.  Unfortunately, the ignore-the-bullies-until-they-go-away thing gets a lot harder after you leave elementary school.

“You know, it’s a wonder they let you stay on the team, McCall, what with your  _ advantage. _  Then again, you sucked so bad before, maybe you’re finally good enough.”  If looks could kill, Stiles’s glare would have Jackson in pieces.  However, the Stilinski Death Glare (patent pending) bounces right off the Whittemore Douche Shield (patent bribed to the top of the list).  “Good enough for the bench.”

~~~

Scott never loses control.  Stiles doesn’t know how he does it.  If their places were reversed, Stiles would have taught Jackson a lesson years ago.  But Stiles never talks about it.  Because Scott never talks about it.  And it may not be healthy, but damn it if Stiles is going to make his best friend talk about,  _ think _ about, something that hurts him so much.  Scott is safe during the Purge.  That’s all that Stiles cares about.  One less person to worry about.

 

***

Derek flips another table before he leaves the apartment he’d pinned as Peter’s.  The scent is still fresh, but Peter must have cleared out before Commencement.  Back in the Camaro, Derek swears and crosses the apartment off his mental list of Places Peter is Hiding Like the Coward He is.  On to the next one.

 

***

Stiles is upstairs when it starts.  He sighs but touches the gun at his hip reflexively.  Better safe than sorry.  

Beacons Hills as a town doesn’t really partake in the Purge, the town too small to offer much excitement.  Those looking to really let go often swarm to the bigger cities.  That said, there’s a few locals looking to shake things up.  Kids mostly, too eager to make the drive to a more dangerous place.  And of those eager kids, very few are ever very creative.  It’s the same every year.  Sheriff’s offices, City Hall, the stores on Main and last but not least the Sheriff’s personal residence.  That’s part of the reason Stiles fights to stay every year.  Damn it all if he’s going to leave Casa de Stilinski defenseless from some jack offs with 22s.

Stiles glances at his watch.  7:28.  “Getting a head start this year, eh?”  He mutters to himself and heads towards his room.  Shotgun time.  He’s only ever had to fire warning shots from his bedroom window (only half boarded up just for this purpose).  He’s hoping it’ll stay that way.

Stiles picks the shotgun up from his bed, already on his way to the window.  “Let’s see who’s come a knockin’, shall we, Bertha?”  Yes, Stiles named the shotgun Bertha; does he give a flying fuck?  Definitely not.  Stiles absently hefts Bertha in his right hand, her weight reassuring even when his finger is off the trigger.

Stiles flicks aside the thick curtain on his window and frowns when he can’t see anything.  Sunset was about an hour ago, but usually the street light has a pretty good radius.  Stiles leans closer, straining his eyes to see into the darkness.  “Guess night vision time finally came this year.” Stiles mentally praises himself for convincing his dad that night vision goggles were a necessity.

All thoughts of praise go out the  metaphorical window, however, as Stiles’s very physical window explodes inward and everything becomes a blur of blood and pain.

 

***

Driving through Beacon Hills’ little main street is easier than Derek expected.  There are at least three flaming storefronts that he can see and the occasional spurts of gunfire, but the dark hooded figures running from doorway to broken doorway give him a wide berth.  Outfitting his beloved car with armored plating had been worth it.  That and racing through at three times the legal speed limit.  The Purge does have its advantages.

Derek slows down marginally as he approaches the next possible Peter hideout.  One look at the flaming dive bar, however, and Derek steps on the gas.  That’s what you get for harboring werewolves.  “And not just on Purge night.”  Derek takes a deep breath, trying to steady himself.  The rising moon is hidden from view, but he can feel it.  He hasn’t let himself  run in the weeks building up to this.  He wants to lose control.  He wants Peter to feel it.  His rage, his hurt, his desperation.  All of it.  Derek focuses on that.  His anger.  It’s been a good anchor for eight years, it will do for at least one more night.

 No longer in danger of flipping out, Derek lets himself enjoy the drive.  The roads are empty here in Beacon Hills’ residential areas.  The sky is clear and Derek yearns to breathe it all in and soak in the fresh scents while he can.  He rolls down the window a few inches, figuring no one will see such a small opening in the dark, let alone be able to hit it at 60 mph.  

It really is a beautiful night.  The air is crisp with the last chills of winter, but Derek can smell the moist ground ready to erupt with the help of just a few more days of sunlight.  He’s missed being able to smell something other than the sweet rot of the big city.  Maybe once Peter is gone Derek can try to make this place home again.  He feels like a child for thinking it, but New York feels too big and scary without Laura.

***

Stiles is aware of pain and that’s about it.  Crashes and shouts echo against his ears but it’s all too much too fast.  Hands are on him, pushing and pulling.  He tries to get away but that’s difficult when you don’t know which direction  _ away _ is.  The world fades from red to black for an indefinable amount of time, and the next thing Stiles sees is his floor sliding away beneath him

Pain permeates everything, but Stiles can feel adrenaline racing through his veins, making him feel more alert than he can ever remember being.

Whoever is dragging him has hold of his ankles and Stiles takes immediate advantage of his unrestrained hands.  If he can grab hold of a doorway or wall, he can get enough leverage to kick out of the vise grip on his ankles and maybe stand a chance.  Reaching out, Stiles’s hand wraps around something and he rejoices for a moment before the thing comes away from the wall to drag along with him.  He almost drops the thing to try again for the doorway he feels scraping his stomach, but then the weight and feel register and he clutches it closer, hugging his bat like a lifeline.  He’s sure they’ve already taken his gun.  The concret of the front steps burns his stomach where his shirt has ridden up and the new pain sparks Stiles into action.

Flipping on to his back, Stiles swings the bat down toward his foot with both hands.  A crunch and a yelp and his ankle is free.  Stiles maneuvers onto his knees and swings again.  Another yelp and his eyes are adjusting in the darkness to see the man clutching a hand to his chest and buckling down to one knee.  “Take that, fucker,” and Stiles swings, able to aim this time.  He connects, hoists himself to his feet with the momentum and runs.  

Logic would say run back to the house and the knives waiting next to the couch and behind the TV, but instinct says  _ Away _ and Stiles listens.  He’ll run until dawn if he has to.  As a child, Stiles spent as much time as he was allowed in the little patch of forest across the street and a lot more that he wasn’t.  He knows it like the back of his hand, more than able to navigate it in the dark.  The street is shadowed, the streetlight out and the faint light from the open doorway not reaching farther than the driveway.  He can’t see any headlights or hear any engines, so Stiles makes a break for it.

The streetlight flickers and Stiles falters, startles as the light steadies to reveal a van like the kind used for multiple prison transports.  Stiles has been in one before (because being the Sheriff’s kid has perks) and he knows that he does not one to be in one again.  It’s white with a messily painted red stripe like a mockery of an ambulance and there’s a group of at least five guys in front of it.  Each of them is wearing a white mask with a red cross crudely painted on, like the ambulance, and they’re all armed with something vicious, be it a machete, a shovel thing with razor edges or a bat like Stiles’s only filled with spikes.  

_ At least none of them have guns. _ Stiles hates optimism.  

“Hey, get the kid!”  A voice yells from behind him and Stiles startles but remains caught like a deer in headlights as the guys look up and spot him.  If he hadn’t been so focused on no guns, maybe he would have been able to notice they hadn’t fucking seen him yet.

“Thanks for nothing, optimism,” Stiles breathes out then runs, parallel to the street, toward the neighbor’s yard.  A gunshot cracks through the air and the neighbor’s nice picket fence is suddenly missing a piece or two.   _ Well there goes that. _

“Hey, what the fuck man!  Don’t waste those bullets!”   _ Who the hell is worried about wasting bullets on the Purge?  Unless- _

“I’m human!” Stiles screams, turning around to face the mock-hunters.  “I’m human, not a wolf.  I’m worthless to you, don’t shoot.” Stiles holds his free hand in front of him but doesn’t drop the bat.  The guys have formed a loose semi-circle about 15 feet away from him, standing directly underneath the streetlight.  The yellow of the light against the damp pavement reminds Stiles of a horror movie.  Hysteria bubbles in his throat as he realizes that’s exactly what this is.  It’s been forever since Stiles has seen a horror movie.  They became a lot less appealing when there was a 12 hour long marathon every year.

Stiles pushes down the panic and starts paying attention to what’s unfolding in front of him.  The guys - he really should say people; there was no way to tell male or female between the masks and clothes - were all looking at one who must have been the ringleader, the one who had shouted about bullets.  He nods and three of them hand off their weapons to the others.  Stiles gets a really bad feeling when the three start walking toward him.

“Being human doesn’t make you useless, Stiles,” the ringleader says.  “Everyone likes to Purge their own way, and I have a feeling you’ll make someone’s night very special.”  Stiles doesn’t know what the hell this guy- definitely a guy with that voice - is talking about, but that’s rapidly becoming unimportant because the three thugs are only a few feet away.

“Oh yeah?”  Stiles can only hope that he sounds more fearless than he feels as he hefts his bat in preparation.  “Well, special comes at a price, bitch, and I’m expensive.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to leave comments/questions here or over @ doctorthetwitch on tumblr.


	3. Savior

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek was never good at letting people kill each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter includes more graphic violence, blood, and a description of a panic attack.

“Hey!  Fuck OFF!”  The cry cuts to Derek’s ears from what must be a few streets over.  “Let me go you mother-FUCK! Get OFF!”

Derek tries not to turn onto the next street.  He tries not to slow down as he gets closer to the commotion.  He tries not to notice that it’s three against one.

“C’mon, Derek, you have a job to do,” Derek closes his eyes.  he tries to block out the muffled expletives that are sounding more and more like whimpers.  “Just drive past, Derek, it’s not that hard.  Just drive.”

Then Derek hears the crunch of bone.  And he’s out of the car before he can remind himself why he shouldn’t be, claws extended before he can think of why that’s a bad idea.

Derek was never very good at letting people kill each other.  At least he could say he tried?

 

***

Stiles had lost his bat pretty fast once rushed by three attackers.  It was a blur of pain and punches but Stiles punched and kicked and bit and swore through it.  Whatever these fuckers thought, he wasn’t going without a fight.  Once he’d been on the ground it’d gotten a lot harder to fend off booted feet raining kicks to every part of him.  Stiles just wished he would black out soon.  it would be awesome not to feel this anymore.  Stiles was about to just give up and go limp when a flying kick hit something else on its way and ended up shoving Stiles’s bat back into his hands.  

The Sheriff’s face lodges itself behind Stiles’s eyes and Stiles almost laughs out loud at his dad’s expression.  It’s that warning look a parent aims at a child who knows he’s about to cross a line.  That ‘are you _ really _ sure you want to open the cooking jar when I’m sitting right here’ look.  Now it’s more of a ‘don’t you dare even think about giving up, son’ look.   _ Stilinskis fight. _

With a final burst of adrenalin, Stiles clutches the bat flat against his chest and rolls onto his back.  Kicking wildly, Stiles catches his attackers by surprise.  They back up reflexively and Stiles uses his short window to get to his knees and raise the bat, bringing it around in a desperate arc, aiming for shins and kneecaps.  There’s a crunching sound and a yelp and one of the thugs is on Stiles’s level now.  The bat sliding through his hands easily, Stiles jabs him in the face and he’s down.  Stiles barely has a moment to celebrate when he is hauled to his feet, hands wrapped in his hoodie and hot breath too close to his face.  They guy lost his mask in the tussle, and Stiles wishes he hadn’t.  

“C’mon, man, really?”  Jake from third period smiles wickedly and punches Stiles hard in the gut.

“Shoulda let me copy the homework huh, Stilinski?”  Stiles rolls his eyes and gets another fist to the stomach for his trouble.  

“That’s enough,” the leader calls out, voice just as cold as before if a little rougher, out of breath.  Stiles can’t see past Jake’s meat head, but he thinks that’s a good thing when Jake glances over his shoulder only to turn back with a disgusted look on his face and a muttered “sick fuck” on his breath.  

“Time to make a delivery, boys.”  Stiles is about to release a brilliant Digiorno inspired quip when Jake, leering at Stiles and definitely too close for comfort, falls like a dead weight on top of Stiles and forces him to the ground.  “The fuck-” The body disappears and new hands yank Stiles up, pulling him level with a mouth entirely too full of teeth.  Stiles expects the blue when he looks up into the werewolf’s eyes.  It still scares the shit out of him.

The were isn’t fully shifted, only the eyes, fangs and Stiles suspects there will be holes in his favorite hoodie after this.  If there even is an ‘after this’.  A steady, low rumbling is shaking through the guy and into Stiles’s bones where they’re pressed together, something felt rather than heard.  A real growl builds in his throat and Stiles has the feeling he’ll be hearing this one as well as feeling it.

“Run.”

***

The look of absolute terror in the kid’s eyes would have make Laura mad.  Not at the kid for being scared, that was natural, but at Derek for making him that way.  Laura was always battling stigmas, rejecting the stereotype, but he didn’t have that luxury right now.  Derek tells the kid to run.  He does, and Derek turns away from the retreating figure.  In front of him there are two bodies on the ground: the one he just knocked out and the one the kid had incapacitated.  That left the one now running toward the crudely painted van and the other three, of which one was heavily favoring his left leg.  Derek feels the shift crawling up his spine and lets loose a snarl. 

“Go play in town like the rest.”  Derek doesn’t need to be distracted into saving someone every time he drives through the residences of Beacon Hills.  Better to push them on Main Street.

“ _ That _ , boys, is what we’re looking for tonight.”  Derek almost laughs.  These are over excited high schoolers.  The stink of adolescent stupidity itself is tangible.  “Boss’ll like this one.”

Derek doesn’t really care what kind of operation these kids think they’re running or who they’re working for.  What he does care is the full moon now visible above the treeline and right now Derek  _ needs _ .  Blood and tearing flesh and dead bodies.  It’s not a choice anymore.

Heat and pain race up Derek’s spine and he lets the shift crack his neck and break his bones as his teeth grow and move in his jaw and his claws tear from his fingertips.  He’s in front of the van, claws sunk deep into the lame’s shoulder, throwing him to the ground as his other hand wraps around the talkative one’s throat.  He’s digs in, feeling blood well beneath the tips of his claws, savoring the warmth, the smell of blood and fear intoxicating.  

So much so that Derek doesn’t smell the wolfsbane until the bullet is already lodged in his side.

***

Stiles is in the woods when he hears the roar.  He’s heard Scott growl before, low and dangerous, when the full moon is close and Rainbow Road gets a little too intense.  But Stiles has never heard a real roar so filled with pain and rage.  The movies really never do anything justice —

Stiles stops dead and it’s only when the smell of the ground is filling his nose and his palms are stinging does he realize it’s because he tripped.  He hasn’t tripped in these woods since he was five.  

It’s such a strange thought to have now, but Stiles focuses on it, suddenly overwhelmed with a blur of autumn colors and sweet smelling hair and band aids that wouldn’t be effective without the liberal application of kisses.  It must have been pure luck that he’d never fallen again.  Lord knows he fell everywhere else.  But this little stretch of forest had felt like a third parent after that day and then like a second parent years later.  

It’s dark but Stiles doesn’t need to see it to know that everything is spinning.  He feels the ground twirl lazily beneath him as the leaves blend and blur into an incoherent mess above him.  He clutches the ground, gasping and tries to think of what the doctors and therapists and websites told him.  

“Find something.”  Usually Scott or his dad is near, but Stiles feels so small and they feel so far away.  The air is heavy every time he drags in a breath and he can’t tell if it’s too hot or too cold, only that it hurts.  This wasn’t supposed to happen.  This isn’t supposed to happen.  Stiles hasn’t had a panic attack in years.  Not since the first Purge.  Not since the first time Stiles had shot at something living.  

Everything was covered in blood and everything still is.  If Stiles could see his hands, he knows they’d be red.  Stiles’s face is wet and he knows that’s red too.  He’s drowning and he can’t even find a surface to break through.  He doesn’t even know if he wants to.  

Stiles feels the air move, but it’s different from the sickening spinning of the earth below him and the swirl of the trees above him.  It’s a vibration like the surprise of an alarm set too early.  And Stiles wakes up.  

Everything is sharp and cold but nothing is red and Stiles is  _ awake _ .

He’s awake and he’s running and he’s not running away this time, because Stilinskis fight and he’s awake and the man that saved his life is screaming and Stiles can’t just let that go.

***

Derek is surrounded by pain and metal, the world blurring rapidly in and out of focus as poison floods his veins.  His heartbeat is too fast and too loud and Derek can’t hear anything else.  Not the gunshots, not the screaming.  He can’t tell if any of the screaming is his.  His heart hurts with every pulse and Derek can’t focus on anything else.  Then he can’t focus on anything at all.

 

Wolfsbane hurts but, in some ways, getting cured is worse.

Rather than everything hurting — every muscle and tendon aching like it’s been hit by its own individual pain bus — now everything is on fire.  Derek doesn’t even try to stop the roar as it claws its way up and out of his throat.  Everything is on fire and there’s no use in silence.

“That’s it, let it out, vocalization is good, response is good, you read about that and it’s good, Stiles, remember-” the pain flares again as the last of the wolfsbane burns away and Derek zeros in on the constant stream of words over his own screams.

“You’re gonna live and he’s gonna live and you’re gonna get through this Purge, Stiles, you’re gonna get to the station and meet up with Dad and you’re  _ not _ gonna die on this dumb fucking night because if you don’t live to your eighteenth birthday, I swear to God, Stiles, that I will kill you myself because if I did I will die as a man thankyouverymuch-”

“Shut up,” Derek groans, unable to take it anymore now that the fire is gone, leaving an aching in his muscles and a pounding in his head.  He doesn’t bother opening his eyes.

“Hey, you’re okay!  The wolfsbane is out, but I’m sure you already knew that considering it’s your body and you stopped screaming.”

“What did I just say?”

“Shut up?  Oh yeah, I’m not very good at that.”  Derek almost laughs because he can practically hear the kid shrugging.  “Also, that’s some Grade A gratitude there, buddy, considering I just unpoisoned your ass.”

“Yes, thank you very much for that particular dose of agonizing pain.”  

“And with sarcasm systems intact, we can safely say you’re cured.  Congratulations, gents, operation Save Mr. Grumpy is a success.”  

Derek heaves a sigh and opens his eyes.  The world comes into focus slowly and Derek takes the time for a quick systems check.  No broken bones, no open wounds, no poison eating him alive.  Even the headache is fading with each passing moment.   _ Good _ , Derek thinks.  He needs to be in this best condition when he fights Peter.

“So what’s the plan, Big Guy?”  Pale skin and dark eyes fill Derek’s field of vision and he can almost  _ feel _ the headache coming back.   _ Not good _ , Derek thinks.  He needs a human tagalong like he needs another bullet in the side.  

“No,” Derek grunts, sitting up and forcing the human (a skinny, bumbling kid that would be  _ worse _ than a bullet at this point) out of his way as he takes in what must be the back of the Purgers’ van.  Derek doesn’t care to think how much of the blood on the floor and walls isn’t his. 

“What do you mean ‘no’?”  A hand grabs at Derek’s shoulder and turns him back to face the kid.  “If you hadn’t noticed, I kind of just saved your life.”

“I mean  _ no _ ,” Derek growls, resisting the urge to rip the kids hand off where it touches him.  “Do you want to hear it in  _ spanish _ ?”  

The kid rolls his eyes but removes his hand, raising it in front of him in a universal gesture of ‘don’t kill me’.  Then he does something a little less universal, at least among humans.

“You know weres?”  Derek asks, a little more forcefully than intended.  The kid nods, not looking him in the eye and keeping his neck slightly bared.  Classic signs of submission.  

“My best friend got Turned a couple years back.  Rogue Alpha.  It wasn’t even a Purge night.”  Derek grunts in recognition; he’d heard Turning sucked.  He wouldn’t know.

“You can drop the submissive act.  I’m not going to rip your throat out.”  Derek caught the kids ‘better safe than sorry’ smile before turning back to the van to check what weapons he could scavenge.  He didn’t really  _ need  _ any more weapons, but the fewer wolfsbane bullets in the hands of hunters the better.  

***

“So, uh-”

“You’re not coming with me.”

“Come on, man!” Stiles whines, watching as the werewolf — a man in his twenties that was ruggedly handsome in a very GQ way — rummages through the van of his would-be kidnappers.  “Why not?  Did I mention that I saved your ass?”  A really nice ass, too, now that Stiles could see it.   _ Dammit, Stilinski, not the time. _

“Yeah,” the guy scoffs.  “Right after I saved yours.  Or did you forget that part?”  Stiles may or may not have forgotten that part.  Stiles looks around, mind starting to slow down now that the adrenaline is working itself out of his system.  His gaze lands on the ruined door of Casa del Stilinski.  _ Fuck _ .  The house wasn’t secure anymore, far from it.  Stiles would have to leave it for the night.   _ Double fuck. _

“Look, man-”

“Derek.”  Okay. 

“Look, Derek.  Just give me a lift to the sheriff’s station.  Then I’ll be out of your hair.”  

Derek turns to glare at him, and for the first time, Stiles wonders why a blue-eyed werewolf would be out on his own on Purge night.  Stiles swallows nervously as Derek looks at him.  

“Fine.”  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ten chapters is my goal, but I'm not quite sure how long it will take to incorporate everything I want to put in this story. Hit me up with any questions or comments either here or over @ doctorthetwitch on tumblr.


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